Cold Daylight
by typing away
Summary: Eragon, driven to the edge by the trauma he saw and suffered from during the war, visits his friends to see how they have moved forwards, while he has descended into madness.


**I do not own the Inheritance Cycle.**

_The stories about the heroes of old never mention that this is the price you pay when you__grapple__with the monsters of the dark and the monsters of the mind. - Eragon_

"By the power invested in me as a rider, I pronounce you husband and wife!"

When Murtagh and Nasuada's lips touched, the crowd cheered.

After the reception, and when the guests had begun to thin out, the newlyweds ambled up to the rider's tent, at the very edge of the large clearing, to express their thanks. Both their faces shone with happiness and his strong arm was around her waist while her left hand caressed the muscles in his back. She still wore her vibrant rosy red wedding dress while he had changed into light crimson, matching the colour of his dragon, which circled over clearing, his scales glittering in the moonlight.

"Freyr, words cannot expressed our thanks, you conducted a beautiful ceremony. I was rather surprised when an elf offered to conduct our marriage, but all my doubts have been proved for naught. The unity of all the races was displayed magnificently today."

Freyr smiled, and leaned onto the door frame of his tent. He had pointy ears that leaned out of his face a fraction, and friendly azure eyes which usually darted about. His thin frame was covered with a light blue tunic like the summer sky and on his right palm the mark of his bond shimmered with its own light.

"There is nothing to be thanked, Your Majesty, I thoroughly enjoyed it myself."

When they had strolled out of sight, he lay down, and, reluctantly, let sleep claim him.

_It was him again. The exact same man that he had killed dozens of times before was trying to murder him again. He thrust his sword through the man's gut and pushed him out of the way. The man screamed when he yanked out the blade. Behind him, there was another man whose fear was clear on his face. The man tried to flee. But magic twisted his mind into running towards the enemy. A sword slashed open his belly and entrails slopped onto the ground._

The delicate sheets he had were shredded and sweat dripped from his forehead as he struggled into a sitting position. Looking outside, he could barely see the opposite side of the forest, which surrounded the isolated wedding location in the shape of a huge circle. Clumps of different coloured tents littered the lush plain, with the most important of guests near the middle, where Nasuada and her now-husband Murtagh resided, with the servants living on the very edge. From the outside, the tent was a dull brown, like all of the others in the vicinity and therefore hidden from the brawls of politics which Nasuada couldn't escape, even now. Roran, despite his relatively low status, lived within the circle of kings and queens, as recognition to his efforts in the Great War and as a tribute to his remarkably old age: he was nearing his eightieth year. Tending him was Ismira, still as strong and fierce as he first met her, many years ago.

Arya resided in an emerald tent, far away.

Exhausted, he leaned back onto his cot and closed his eyes, thinking of the loneliness that clenched his heart.

* * *

"Freyr."

"Your Majesty, how does your day fair?"

"Well, may I enquire about the reasons behind your leader's absence?"

"He is too busy, the number of riders he has to train to growing, not to mention the administrative papers he needs to create to ensure everything runs smoothly. The governing council may be expanded in the future to spread the tasks, though suitable people are difficult to find."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "I was notified of this months ago, and it had not come to pass?"

He slid smoothly into a curious expression. "How did Your Majesty know this? Only the elders on the present body heard his proposal and information only trickled down to me after passing through many mouths."

She looked, for an instant, reminiscent, but her eyes returned their focus to him very soon. "I was notified by a friend." She paused to contemplate her next words. "Do you know any about Eragon's current illness?"

He feigned surprise. "Illness? I highly doubt he is sick. Sickness does not often strike riders and any ailment he encountered would surely be healed. Poison is an impossibility, the elders would know. Maybe the rumours you have heard stem from gossip. Apart from training session with the new riders, he is very difficult to find and so he regarded as a mystery to his students, thus the gossip."

"Then why has he stopped teaching his students mental defence?"

Now he was surprised. "From whom did you hear this? His dragon has merely taken over this responsibility temporarily, for he needs time to discuss certain topic with the elders.

"What topics did he need to discuss?"

"Expansion of the training grounds, removal of certain buildings, topic that deal with the running of the city. You need not be so concerned, Your Majesty. He would not be our leader if he was a weakling, succumbing to frequent illness."

"I did not imply that, you forget I fought with him against the King, not so long ago."

"I have not forgotten, I beg forgiveness if I offended you, however I assure Master Eragon is fine. If you have heard of any illness, they are just the symptoms of a very busy life."

"You did not offend me, Freyr. I must go visit the monarch and rider you wedded. Thank you for your time, our talk was insightful."

"May I introduce you and your dragon to someone you would like to meet, later perhaps at night?"

She frowned, puzzled. "Who is he?"

"She, Your Majesty, is a relation of yours." He smiled, amused at her bewilderment.

"At night then, at the evening feast." Her eyes had narrowed in curiosity. He nodded, he would not eat much today anyway, or any other day for that matter.

"May the star watch over you."

"And over you as well."

* * *

Lying down on his back, at a small clearing where he awaited the Queen and her dragon, where they were to meet Erisdar, who was still standing, wings twitching in excitement. He closed his eyes, intending to relax, but fatigue caught up with him, and he fell asleep.

Of course, there would never be sleep, only nightmares.

_His ears rang with the blaring of the trumpets and the screams of men came from all around him. The thunderous beating of hooves he felt through his feet, before the sound reached his ears. He could smell the sweaty fear in the Empire's men and could taste the tang of blood and the stink of sweat on his tongue. Rivers of gore streamed from open gashes and ran along the valleys and ditches of dirt, then seeped into the ground. He slit another man's throat, and his blood sprayed from his jugular vein and splattered on his helmet and face. He blinked the droplets away and continued to slaughter the ranks of humans which waxed and waned like an immense tide, governed by fear and magic promises. He smashed his way to the enemy's trench and witnessed dozens of bodies, half submerged in the expanse of blood. He stepped into the channel, and grimaced as his right boot sank through the mud and red liquid drained into the insides of his armour. He looked down at the lake of blood, and saw himself, covered in gore, and on his face, it ran down his cheeks like tears._

His eyes flickered open for an instant, then, shuttered close. No light made it through his eyelids; no solace had reached his soul for the things he had done...

"_No! I am an elf sympathiser, a Varden spy! I __am one of you! I have a family: a blind wife called Helen who is going to have a child soon. M-my n-name is-"_

_A chuckle and a scream._

_A whisper: "name is...Roren"_

Roran and Roren. They were similar in many aspects: they were caught in the same war, the same family situation and a similar name. One was his cousin. One was not.

_Blood always tells. _

His mind swayed between memory and dream.

_He smiled as Roran and he battled against each other with steel. This form of game always exhilarated him and pushed the limits of his endurance and strength. Finally Roran dropped his sword and panted as his hands fell to his thighs in exhaustion. Eragon had won. He drew back his blade, and plunged it into his cousin's gut. Roran screamed as he yanked out the blade._

_Blood for blood._

There was a lot of blood in the war, a lot of death and there were a lot of men, who had escaped the death but not the blood, who had left the war scarred on the outside and dying in the inside.

When he managed to break free of his nightmares, he noticed, to his shame, tears were rolling down his cheeks. To his great disgrace, he found that he could not stop them, if anything, they just poured out faster. Glancing around him, head hung low, he noticed that Erisdar had left and Firnen had presumably followed his daughter. Arya was sitting some distance away and, thankfully, hadn't seemed to notice.

He wondered what Saphira was doing now, probably training his new students in mental defence, a role she had graciously accepted when his…episodes started. She had encouraged him to take this break, in the hope that seeing his friends would help him forget, and only he agreed so if he got better, she would have more time for flying, a hobby both of them had lost because of his weakness.

She should have chosen someone else as her rider, someone _stronger, _he thought bitterly. He buried his head in his calloused hands as hopelessness and self-loathing choked his other thoughts.

_The manacles wrapped around his wrists were slick with his blood. Something made of leather was stuffed in his mouth. The stink of Helgrind clung to his nostrils. He turned to his right. Arya was dead._

_He had failed, again._

Tears, again, welled behind eyes scrunched in pain as tremors of loss shook his body. Refusing to expose his sadness, he stayed like that, curled up in a tight ball like a scared hedgehog, for what seemed like many hours.

When he finally composed himself, he let out a shaky breath and a quiet groan, which escaped from his attention.

It did not escape Arya's though, nothing had from the moment she landed on the clearing.

"Eragon." Tentative fingers brushed his arm.

He flinched.

"Eragon?"

Her musical voice tore him from his grim imaginings and his head snapped to his right. "Arya!" Then quickly overcoming his shock, he scrambled upright and bowed, "Queen Arya." His face had quickly smoothed out to a impassive mask, but he knew she would see the slight redness of his eyes, and the creases of sadness on his forehead.

She looked him for a moment, surprised at the new lines at his face, however, that did not stop the anger she felt at his deceit lie in her words.

"You disappointed many of your friends with the lead rider's absence." She coldly spoke in the ancient language, leaving him no room and squirm out of the uncomfortable question with a lie. She, gratefully though, posed it as a statement allowing him to ignore it if he wished. "What am I going to tell Roran? That I saw his beloved cousin, who, for whatever reason, hid himself from his friends while an old man nears end of his existence?

"No."

"What of Nasuada and Murtagh, they are both human and fifty years without a friend and a brother is ridiculous, given you have the opportunity to visit yourself. Do you think they have forgotten about your absence in the joy of their union?

"No."

She stopped and turned to face him. Dark bags were under his pale almond eyes and his cheekbones protruded slightly from the light skin of his face. She could easily imagine rows of ribs pushing outwards every time he breathed in. There was a scar, partly hidden under the sleeve of his tunic extended over the back of his right hand. "Firnen still longs to see Saphira again. Is she here?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"She is busy teaching the new students."

"But you were able to come." The accusation was obvious in her tone.

"Yes." Her lips twitched downwards a fraction, though Eragon knew she was far angrier than she appeared. Maybe their friendship would end, though his cold unresponsiveness. He hoped not.

So he tried to steer the conversation across to other, much more pleasant topics.

"How kind have the years been on you, Arya? They say the prosperity of the elves is great."

Thankfully, she let her irritation go and smiled, though he could tell it was forced. The content tone of her voice, however, was genuine. "The fall of that tyrant did much to rebalance the races and the effects of came much faster than expected. My people have had much of their cognitive and physical abilities than they lost, restored. They are more open to strangers now and the population is growing faster than it usually would. The other monarchs have experienced the same in their kingdoms, Urgals, humans, dwarves, werecats and elves have all benefited greatly from his destruction." She paused. "It makes the war we fought meaningful, worth all the death and the suffering, does it not?"

Eragon wasn't looking at her, instead, his eyes were unfocused and his breathing silent as he contemplated that he had heard. When he spoke, the sound was low and quiet, as if he was far away. "It appears so."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her look at him again.

The shadow of the tree he was sitting against draped over his body like an impossibly thin, dark blanket. The thick, curly hair he had during the war had wilted to thin strands that turned white at the ends. The hard muscle he had acquired from his training had disappeared, replaced by something leaner and softer. The bronze tan that used to be on his limbs and face was replaced by a pale colour that brought out his scars even more. He appeared tired and sick. While everyone else she knew was enjoying peace after generations of dictatorship, He had missed out, struggling to rebuild a race far away from the recovery. He had missed out on peace, and now, having finally returned "home", there was no longer any connection. There was no happiness to glean from his arrival. He instantly, vehemently, regretted his decision to come here.

"Everyone has become so much more," murmured Eragon, speaking more to himself than Arya. "And I have become so much..._less_."

There was a hesitant brush on his forearm. He shivered. And even though he tried to hide it, he knew she would have felt it. There had been no peace in his life. He had been flitting to and fro, like a humming bird, called to meetings, teaching students, studying under Gleadr...

_He sat cross-legged, on the tip of a small cliff facing his old home. He had tried to meditate, but there were too many buried feelings and thoughts. What was like for Arya? Murtagh? Nasuada? Roran? Whenever he had the time to finally sit and think, he did not want to. Thinking meant remembering, and remembering... The weight of responsibility pinned him, painfully, to his island and the thorns of memories kept him away from confronting the life he had before. He leaned back his head and let the salty air brush his skin as his mind churned with loneliness and..._

"_Master!"_

_He pushed his past into the back of his mind and let the waves of his burden of his students sweep his away from rest__._

There was never any rest. There was never any time to let go of the past.

**This was formerly "Unexpected" and it is very late in being published. Sorry about that. I am thinking about adding another chapter as the plot is quite incomplete, but that will be decided on the amount of interest the story collects. So-**

**Review please!**


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